


Five Conversations Between a Pervert and a Prude

by PutItBriefly



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Content Warning: Discussion of pornography, Content Warning: Discussion of rape, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 15:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1121250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PutItBriefly/pseuds/PutItBriefly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bulma notices Vegeta avoids talking about sex.  So she spends their lives asking him uncomfortable questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Conversations Between a Pervert and a Prude

**Five Conversations Between a Pervert and a Prude**

 

**0\. The Beginning**

 

Bulma’s favorite thing about Vegeta (and she has a lot of things that she really, really likes about him) is that he is a complete prude.  Even the tamest reference to anything relating to sex, body parts involved in sex or body parts that someone may be sexually attracted to will make him upset.  And not _Flee in Terror, the Evil Space Monkey is Going to Blow Up the World_ upset.  Actually ...upset.  Discombobulated.  Uncomfortable.  

 

It is the strangest thing, this severe values dissonance.  Genocide?  Fine.  Sex?  Terrible.  Violence?  Fun.  Orgasms?  Disgusting.  Bulma can only assume that the Saiyans as a species just hated life _so much_ that in addition to their space-faring murdering ways, they avoided creating new beings as much as possible.

 

He thinks she is perverted and vulgar (and boy, is he not shy about saying so!) because she acknowledges when she is attracted to someone.  Or because she doesn’t pretend her breasts don’t exist.  Or because she and Yamcha have Frank Discussions about their needs in the bedroom.  Or the garden, that one time.

 

When inviting a genocidal alien maniac into the home on a whim, it is very, very important for the residents’ piece of mind that there are things to like about the creep.  So, Bulma made a list of things to like about Vegeta: His drive is incredible.  He has very healthy self-esteem.  He’s one of the most intelligent people she knows.  He is somehow more willing to do what she asks than 90% of her other friends.  And he’s also shorter than her, has ridiculous hair, and starts sweating if she so much as mentions her underwear.

 

All in all, Bulma is actually pretty fond of him.

  **I. Power**

“So,” she says conversationally over coffee one morning, “I bet you’ve raped a lot of women, huh?”

 

Bulma predicted that this line of questioning would get a strong reaction from him, but he actually chokes on his drink.  “Relax,” she commands.  “It’s a power trip, not a sex thing.  You should be able to handle talking about it.”  Fear, Bulma knows, is born from the unknown.  Vegeta is a killer, but he doesn’t kill indiscriminately.  He kills with goals in mind.  He has nothing to gain by taking her life, so she feels pretty secure in that respect.  Still, she’s sure he’s capable of a lot of other acts of brutality.  She wants to know what she’s dealing with.

 

She’s dangerously close to considering him a friend, a roommate, a member of the family.  There are all sorts of little things about him...humanizing, little things that make him stop being the Dreaded Evil that killed her friends and start making her see him as a regular guy.  He drinks coffee.  He has favorite foods.  She catches him watching television now and then.  She’s pretty sure his favorite color is blue.

 

She needs to know what she’s dealing with.

 

She already likes him too much.

 

She needs to know.

 

Once he gets his breathing regulated, Vegeta replies, “You are making a lot of assumptions.”

 

“Probably,” Bulma concedes.  “But out there in space, wiping out the whole population of planets...that probably gets pretty tedious if there’s no one strong enough to put up a good fight.  After a while, you probably start looking for other ways to flaunt your power to the natives or drive home how helpless their situation is.”

 

“What I meant was, not every species is,” he stops, struggling with his phrasing before settling on “humanoid--”

 

“--it’s okay, you can say ‘simian’--”

 

“--enough that there’s adequate compatibility.”

 

“Species sans vaginas, I will give you, but you can’t tell me that there are species without mouths.  Oh, God, please tell me you know what a blow job is.  I could never forgive myself for letting you stew in that kind of ignorance this long.”  She’s known him five months. Still, he’s gotta be at least 30.  Assuming Saiyans reach sexual maturity at around the same time humans do, 30 years without oral sex is about 12 years too long. Her only point of reference is Son, and Existence of Gohan aside, she’s pretty sure he never achieved sexual maturity.  She briefly considers -- and rejects -- the possibility that Saiyan puberty comes much later than its human counterpart.  First, because Vegeta is way, way too hot to not be a grown man and second, because regardless of how aware he was while doing it, Goku _did_ contribute to the creation of Gohan.  And he’s still married to Chichi, so presumably, he liked it.  (Though...Son could think ‘divorce’ is a beverage or something...)

 

Her plea makes Vegeta sweat, and stutter, and the mess that comes out of his mouth forces Bulma to stop daydreaming and actually focus on listening because no one is going to understand the words he is forcing himself to say without putting in some serious effort.  From the chaos, Bulma grasps onto two salient points and creates one hypothesis:

Salient Point One:  
He does know what a blow job is.  

 

Salient Point Two:  
Species whose reproductive systems are birdlike or insectoid also have birdlike or insectoid mouths.  Frieza’s organization was a very poor cross-section of the population of the galaxy.  His followers were generally mammalian or reptilian, but the most common form of sentient life found in the galaxy is insectoid.

 

Hypothesis One:  
He’s not a prude.  He wants to fuck her.  He really, truly, desperately wants to fuck her and all of his discomfort in discussing sex with her comes not from some kind of cultural intercourse taboo (or, thankfully, lack of sexual development) but from his blue monkey balls.  

 

Also, she’s not real happy to think that space is mostly filled with giant bug-people.

 

The only thought she expresses is that last one.  Vegeta laughs and tells her not to worry.  He can _personally_ vouch for no bug-people from Earth to old Namek.  

 

It’s not comforting.  Bulma watches him drain the remains of his coffee in one long swallow and depart for the day’s training.  Her cup is still steaming.  Curiosity about Saiyan heat tolerance half-forms in her mind until she realizes: he completely avoided answering her original question.

 

It’s not comforting.

 

**II. Don’t they have porn in space?**

 

He’s so bad at kissing that after the third try at getting his mouth working with hers, Bulma gives up entirely and starts sucking on his neck.  She also has to take his hand and put it on her breast.  She can already see herself drawing a map to her clitoris because he is going to be clueless.

 

For one crazy second, she wonders why she didn’t encourage Vegeta to build a friendship with Roshi.  How was she supposed to know when he got here that eventually she’d be choosing between crawling into his bed or crawling up the walls because she could not stand to go another second without being touched by him?  Clearly, _someone_ needed to tell him what to do with her boob once he had it.

 

Bulma abandons her assault on his neck so that her mouth is free to give instructions.  When she started this, she didn’t think she would have to talk him through it, but Bulma is starting to warm up to the idea.  Being in control in this encounter is an attractive prospect.  Not just because she can direct him to her sweet spots, but because Vegeta, as a general rule, hates giving up control.    

 

She’s not blind to the fact that they have a very similar turn of mind.  Bulma has had whatever passes for his respect from the start and it is probably owing to her constant affirmation of her own strengths and refusal to back down from a challenge.  Vegeta does not find the idea of conceding to her will utterly repugnant or disrespectful to his own status as a prince.  Her mind is enough like his own that he sees the value in her requests.  Likewise, she sees the value in his.  Vegeta, as a general rule, hates giving up control, but he loosens his grip just a little when it comes to her.

 

She’s not sure if its his trust or his fingers, but something has lit a fire inside of her that travels straight down to her pussy.  Bulma leans her forehead against his.  This should be a give and take, and she realizes exactly as clueless about Saiyan sweet spots as he is about a human’s.  She brushes the wet spot she left on his neck with her fingertips.  “Where do you want me to touch you?”

 

It is hard to see clearly when her eyes are this close to his face, but he flushes.  One of his heavy hands -- not the one on her chest, thankfully -- closes around her wrist and drags her hand to his erection.

 

Bulma laughs and refuses the invitation.  “Not yet!  That’s the main event.  We’re still on the previews.  What else would feel good?”  He doesn’t answer and Bulma gets the sinking feeling that Vegeta is a prude after all.  She tries again.  “What are your fantasies?  Sexual fantasies,” she quickly amends.  Some treatise on how he wants to defeat “Kakarrot” would really kill the mood.

 

“A woman who talks less.”

 

“If I don’t know what you want, I can’t give it to you,” she points out.

 

“I made that clear.”

 

“And I made it clear _not yet_.  There’s got to be something else you like, or something you’ve seen and want to try.” 

 

He pulls back, and this time he does remove his hand.  “Seen?”

 

“Yeah,” Bulma chuckles, uncomfortable.  “Don’t they have porn in space?”  He’s spoken Earth languages remarkably well, but it occurs to her that the term might be throwing him off.  “You know.  Movies or pictures of people getting it on.”

 

He bristles and Bulma realizes far too late that for the first time in the nearly two years they have known each other, she has made him _angry_.  She’s teased him, annoyed him, made him uncomfortable and even offended him (honestly, how was she supposed to know ‘monkey’ is a racial slur?  She thought it was cute), but she’d had never truly inspired his wrath.

 

“I am Prince Vegeta, of the Saiyans.  I do not denigrate myself or my noble bloodline with such _trash_.”

 

Bulma really wishes she wasn’t naked right now.  Especially since he has a _thing_ about nudity and refused to take his clothes off.  “Vegeta,” she says cautiously, reaching out for him, “it’s okay.  I wasn’t -- I’m not judging you.”  She started out reaching for his waist, but things better of it and her hands land on his shoulders instead.  “And I don’t know anything about your bloodline or what you have to do to honor it, but if your ancestors aren’t up there in Saiyan heaven being proud of you, then they’re morons.  Because you are stubborn as hell and you are going to be the Legend that none of them ever were and you know that and I know that and they know that.”

 

He snorts derisively.  “What do you know of our Legend?”

 

“A lot,” she answers with a half-smile.  “It’s pretty much your favorite thing to talk about.  I know it backwards and forwards.  And obviously the person who is going to fulfill it is you.  I don’t care how many colors Son’s hair turns.  He can’t embody a legend he doesn’t even know or represent a culture he’s completely ignorant about.”  She squeezes his shoulders in a manner she’s hoping he’ll read as playful.  “And I’m not just saying that so you’ll stop being angry at me.  I really believe in you.”

 

“You’re afraid,” he spits.

 

She titters.  “Not going to lie, I’d feel a lot braver if I was wearing a shirt right now.”

 

In a fluid motion, he knocks her hands away, draws his own shirt off over his head and thrusts the garment at her.  She doesn’t know why he does it.  Disgust, maybe, that someone who has stood up to him all this time is showing fear.  She can rule out pity or compassion.  She knows he likes his adversaries at their best.  Most likely, he’s giving her the boost she needs to take him head on.

 

But in her hands, the soft cotton isn’t a challenge or the acknowledgement of contention between them.  It feels more like an olive branch.  She throws it on the floor.  “Hey.  Turns out I don’t need it after all.”

 

“You expect to die naked?” he drawls, with a voice just barely on the edge of menacing.

 

She locks her arms around his bare shoulders and kisses him firmly.  He doesn’t respond at all.  “Saiyans don’t kiss, do they?”

 

Vegeta frowns.  “I’ve never heard of such things occurring among my people.”

 

“Of course not,” Bulma agrees, thinking it is now or never on testing her theory.  “Saiyans don’t talk about sex.  I don’t what went on behind closed doors back when there were lady Saiyans to fool around with, but, you know -- neither do you.  Not if no one was ever willing to _tell_ you.”

 

“Implying ignorance --” he begins heatedly, but Bulma doesn’t let him get any further.

 

“Whoa, buddy -- I’m not _implying_ anything.  I’m telling you straight out.  If those other two Saiyans that you used to pal around with never talked about it, you _don’t know_ what happens when two Saiyans do the deed.”  A little too late, Bulma figures she probably should have sugar-coated this.  “Look -- you were a kid when...it...happened, right?  No one wants to expose a kid to adult fun.  And once there were no Saiyan women left, then why bother?  You didn’t need to know what to expect.

 

“But you are in luck, because I happen to be a _human_ hottie and I am sure as _hell_ going to tell you what I expect.  And to be honest, right now I expect you to defuse a little bit, because I am trying to communicate with you, not piss you off.”

    

The old adage about talking to a brick wall has never been more true.  Vegeta replies tersely, “It’s unacceptable.”

 

Bulma pinches the bridge of her nose.  “Well.  I’m sorry.  I guess we should have gotten all this out before trying to do the inter-species mambo.”

 

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he cautions.  “Openly discussing sexual relations has always been taboo in my culture.”

 

“Okay, see, now we are getting somewhere,” Bulma says with a bit more honest cheer.  “Do you know why?  It’s taboo in some of human societies, too.  Mostly for religious reasons, I think.”

 

“Privacy has a great deal of practical benefits.”

 

“Going to bed with someone leaves you vulnerable,” she surmises.  “Can’t let anyone know.  A society that fears other people knowing that you’re doing it wouldn’t put it out there in porn.”  Her human brain tells her that the vulnerability comes from the emotions involved -- taking out a romantic partner or child is an easy way to hurt a target.  But with Vegeta, she doesn’t know that his vulnerability would be emotional or physical.  She doesn’t think he particularly cares about her.  He certainly tolerates her with greater ease than he does any other human.  She would even go as far to say that he finds her useful, or may even like her as a person.  She can’t picture him having naked heart-to-hearts with anyone else.  Albeit this feels rather surreal, even with herself playing the role of the sexy anthropologist.  “And eventually, instead of something being done -- or not done -- for practical reasons, it’s so ingrained in society to not do it, that the _idea_ of doing it -- the _idea_ of talking about sex or the _idea_ of watching pornography -- becomes disgusting.”

 

“I’m glad I’ve been such a fascinating creature to study,” he says sarcastically.

 

“I would rather have been fucking you,” Bulma admits flippantly, “but I think we can agree the mood has been ruined.”

 

“I don’t know what possessed me to attempt fornication with a creature as vulgar as yourself.”

 

“Yes, you do,” Bulma declares, slipping off his bed.  She doesn’t bother trying to hide herself a with a sheet like she’s seen in so many non-pornographic movies.  “You know exactly why.”

 

“Oh?  Enlighten me.”

 

“Oh, I have no idea why you decided to get with this,” Bulma admits as she shimmies into her panties.  “I’m hotter than hell by human standards, but what do you care about that?”  As she continues to dress, she lays out her perception of his character.  “But you, you’re a thinker and you aren’t ruled by base desires or instincts.  Everything you do is deliberate.  You made a _choice_ when I came on to you and you know exactly why.  Don’t pretend you don’t.”

 

“Think you have me figured out, do you, human?”  Vegeta hisses as Bulma tosses his shirt back to him.

 

“Not at all.  But I am definitely working on it.”  Bulma nods sharply.  “We’re going to try this again sometime,” she declares.  “And I know you’re a fast learner when it comes to mimicking techniques, so I expect you to have mastered kissing when I check back, got it?”

 

**III. Marriage**

 

The idea bursts into her brain fully formed and like all of her very best ideas, Bulma rolls with it.  “We should get married.”

 

Vegeta raises an eyebrow.  It is a very Earth expression, but he wears it like a natural, tinged with disbelief and condescension.  “Why would we do that?”

 

“Because,” Bulma declares, eyes bright and barely containing a fist pump, “it sends a message to the rest of the world that we aren’t going to bother with the illusion that we think anyone else is worth our time.”

 

“That would be a better argument if the opinions of humans meant anything to me,” he says drolly.

 

Swing and a miss.  “Okay.  How about after the wedding, it is traditional for the bride and groom to have a honeymoon?”

 

“That would be attractive if the moon held _any_ of the same significance for your people as it does for mine.”

 

“Yeah...” she drawls.  “This has nothing to do with terrifying transformations that make everyone with common sense wet their pants and is more like a sex vacation.”

 

“Once again, your debate skills fail you.”

 

He may shy away from talking about sex, but it certainly has not hampered his enthusiasm for acting doing the deed.  “How can you possibly say no to that?”

 

“How can you possibly,” he parrots her words with a mocking sneer, “think I would agree to a trip where every one of your ridiculous friends, not to mention your overly invested media, knows the primary goal is fornication?”

 

Bulma smirks.  Over the years, she’s developed a smirk that could give his own a run for its money.  “I could accept that as a thing to be embarrassed by if I thought you valued their opinions, but since you’ve already made it clear that you _don’t_ , I don’t see an issue.”  Vegeta averts his eyes, a tiny frown and slight flush on his face.  Bulma preens.  “Ooh, this is the fun part.  Now that I’ve backed you into a corner, what are you going to do about it?”

 

“Why do you suddenly feel the urge to have a meaningless ceremony?” he grouses.

 

The insult hits its mark, because she gets heated up.  “For starter’s, its not meaningless --”

 

“-- I believe your social norms generally expect marriage before living together and procreating --”

 

“-- in the STONE AGE,” Bulma erupts, “but I am a modern woman, and buddy, I am going to have it all.  Career, kid, hot hubby.”

 

“So this is about conquest.”

 

“No...not exactly,” Bulma stutters a bit.  To herself, she can admit that she hasn’t really thought the idea through.  They were lying together and it felt so nice to just be with him.  Her synapses started firing suddenly, and the idea of being with him forever was born in her brain, not unlike the first inspiration for a new invention.  Willfully or not, now Vegeta has challenged her to think it through.  She does her best thinking-it-through at her drafting table, but a marriage with this man won’t be built out of nuts and bolts.

 

“There is an element of pride in it, I guess,” Bulma admits.  “Earth culture teaches women that we can’t have a high-powered career _and_ a successful relationship _and_ raise a kid.  Or, that if a financially successful woman _is_ in a relationship with a man, then that’s something for him to be embarrassed about.  And obviously, all that’s a bunch of bullshit.  I knock down whatever gets in my way and I want to flaunt it.”  The fire in her eyes grows with every word, the confidence with every sentence and by the time she’s finished, Bulma can’t resist the fist pump.  If nothing else, she has his unabashed attention.  

 

“Hmm...and now I’m making a good argument,” she says slyly.  Bulma throws a wink in for good measure.  “Should have known to start with that.  But that’s not even anywhere close to my real reasons.”

 

And just like that, Vegeta is back to disinterest.  “Quit while you’re ahead,” he advises.

 

“Ha!  Like you’d respect me if I quit.  ‘Ahead’ is not enough.  The decimation of your arguments must be complete and irrefutable.”  Bulma could never fight Vegeta with her fists, but she can fight him with her words and ideas.  He craves conflict.  Strong opinions are something she has a surplus of -- with her, he will never be lacking for a clash of ideals.  He doesn’t treat a debate the way he treats a fist fight -- he’ll allow for both contenders to be alive at the end of an argument -- but the victor must leave no room for doubt.  

 

“The sheer gall you display in saying such things shows you do not fear losing my respect.”

 

“Which I have because of the gall,” Bulma points out.  “This is very cyclical.  All I have to do to be sure you’ll keep loving me is to be exactly the way I am.”  He’s never said the word love, and she’s only ever used it to categorize _his_ feelings.  “Which is another argument for marriage,” she decides in the middle of the thought, “because most men would want to change a girl like me into something a little more submissive and I’d rather a man who doesn’t.”

 

Vegeta lowers himself to do something as undignified as snort.  “Men on this planet are terrified of women like you.”

 

“Yep,” Bulma agrees proudly.  “My only chance for happiness was a spaceman from beyond the stars.”  She sighs dramatically.  “Looking back, I don’t know why I didn’t see it sooner.”

 

“I have never felt pity, but if I thought your happiness hinged on _my_ presence in your life, I might consider making an attempt.”   

 

She doesn’t argue that point because he’s right.  Bulma could be perfectly happy without him.  “Well.  Your presence doesn’t _hurt_.”  She’ll make a concession for possibly being _less_ perfectly happy without him, though.

 

“But you made a good point, you know?” she continues.  “Beauty, money and genius is a hard sell.  Guys on earth see a woman like me and think they’ll get shot down.  Or they think paying for everything is a sign of their masculinity or that math and science are for men.  Meanwhile, you could not care less about human standards of beauty, you’re _freaking royalty_ \-- which, let’s face it, you have to be to not be intimidated by my money -- and you’ve got all that cool alien technology.  Win, win, win.

 

“As for why now, after we’ve been doing this for so long...because now is when I started thinking that this thing between us should be for good.”  Bulma chews on her lip.  Their history is long and somewhat ugly.  But if there was every a time for honesty, it is while debating the relative merits of a spur of the moment marriage proposal.  (Well, probably not, but she’s not getting out of this now.)

 

“I asked you live here because I couldn’t exclude you after inviting a hundred other aliens to stay here.”  She stops and wrinkles her nose.  “And because who even knows what you would do if you were running around the planet on your own.  You had no plan, no money, no way to go anywhere else.”

 

“And then I started fucking you because...you’re super hot.  And not really any other reason.  When I look back at those days, I _want_ to think that was a really terrible idea, but those days got us Trunks and he’s pret-ty great.  So I don’t regret any of it.” She shrugs.  “I can’t.

 

“And then you stuck around after Cell.”  A strange lump grows her throat.  “I still don’t know why you did that.  I kept thinking, ‘This is temporary.  He’s going to leave.  He doesn’t care.’  And I was okay with that.”  Her happiness, as he’s already pointed out, does not hinge on him.  “Not, you know, _thrilled_ , but it would have been fine.  Trunks and I, we can manage without you.  Me, better than him, because he would have all these _questions_ as he grew up, but we could swing it.

 

“But _now_...now I think you love us.  And I’m okay with that.”  

 

Bulma waits for him to have a response.  She’s claimed that he loves her on many other occasions, even once before in this very same debate.  Those claims were always at least half-joking in tone, but in all seriousness, Bulma is convinced that it is true.  This time, she says it with conviction.  He didn’t have any love for her when he returned to Capsule Corp. after the Cell Games.  She would be completely delusional to think that he did.  He wasn’t her favorite person just then, either.

 

But in the intervening years, somewhere between raising a half-breed child together and indulging in physical passion, respect and compassion and something beyond self-interest ate away at them.  She is absolutely positive that he adores her, is as in love with her as it is possible for him to be.

 

But he says nothing, just stares at her with an intensity that she chooses to believe is assent.

 

He is absolutely determined to not make this easy for her.  But then, life with Vegeta has never been easy.  There is no reason in the world why this confession should be anything but nerve-wrecking.  

  

“I love you, too,” Bulma says, as though he’d confirmed her accusation, “and I’m pretty sure I’ll keep on loving you until I die.”  She didn’t intend to get quite that melodramatic about it, but the words just plopped out.  Bulma forces out a shaky laugh because if something doesn’t cut the tension, she may cry or faint.  “And then I’ll get wished back with the Dragonballs!”

 

She is absolutely spent.  She has nothing more to say, no further arguments to make.  She has laid her soul completely bare for her enigmatic alien monster, which, Bulma starts to consider, might not have been such a good idea.  If, in the midst off all that love, there was anything she hated about the man, it would be that he let her go that far before making her doubt herself.  “Well?  Don’t you have anything to say?”

 

Vegeta graces her with a glower.  “How dare you waste so much of my life on such ridiculous prattle.”

 

Good and pissed off, Bulma spits, “Are you going to fucking marry me or not?”

 

“Fine.”

 

**IV. Did Saiyan Women have big tits?**

 

She is supposed to be getting dressed for a day at the Capsule Corporation offices, but somewhere between putting on her underwear and her suit, Bulma has become distracted by the image of herself in the full length mirror.  The bra and panty set she’s wearing is new -- pale blue, lacy and not yet properly admired.

 

Behind her, Vegeta reclines on the bed as she preens.  He’s watching her reflection in the mirror; she watches his out of the corner of her eye.  Despite the ample incentive she’s giving him, Vegeta has not put his hands down his pants.  Near as Bulma can tell, he doesn’t masturbate.  Whether this is a Saiyan thing or a Vegeta thing, she doesn’t know, but either way, Bulma thinks he’d be a lot less uptight if he took matters into his own hands every now and then.  

 

Some people know how to appreciate themselves, and with healthy admiration for her own charms, Bulma slides her palms beneath her breasts and hefts them.  Her eyes flicker to the reflection of Vegeta in the mirror, but he’s made no reaction.

 

“Did Saiyan women have big tits?”

 

He sits straight up.  “What?”

 

“Saiyan women,” Bulma repeats.  “Did they have big breasts?”  He doesn’t answer immediately, so she starts answering her own question.  “Saiyan women,” she posits, “were prized for their fighting ability above all else.”  This much, she knows was true.  “Not for their beauty or fertility or domestic skills, but their fighting power.  So, big boobs probably got in the way.  Natural selection would favor small-breasted women, and eventually, the gene pool would have mostly small breast genes.  In addition,” she looks down at her own breasts, still so large and perky despite her age, “these suckers are mostly fat tissue.  A woman whose lifestyle requires her to develop a muscled frame usually has tiny ones.”

 

She spins towards her husband.  “So, I bet they’d be pretty small.”

 

Vegeta neither supports nor refutes her theories.  Finding it necessary to needle him, she asks, “Weeeell?”

 

“The last time I saw a Saiyan woman,” he reminds her tersely, “I was six years old.  I was not looking at her _breasts_.”

 

She pops an eyebrow.  “What _were_ you looking at?”

 

“The degree of respect she paid my father.”

 

With any other man, this would herald story-time, but with Vegeta, it means time to change the subject.  His father is a particularly sore point and as the years passed, Vegeta has grown less and less inclined to talk about his life with other Saiyans.  She knows the obvious things -- King Vegeta failed to protect his people from Frieza; King Vegeta sold the prince into slavery -- and she’s been shocked at the revelations -- the heir was not his only child, just the only one worth a price. 

 

So as much as she would like to learn more about his past, Bulma has to let this drop once King Vegeta enters the fray.

 

“Oh, well,” she shrugs, “You like big ones, right?”  As soon as she says it, Bulma realizes how odd it is, in light of her own theories.  “Actually, its kind of weird that you ended up with me.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

“No, no, listen.”  She crosses the bedroom and climbs up on the bed with him.  “Your culture taught you that strength is attractive, so body types that display strength should be what your attracted to.  But instead of some muscle-y flat-chested fighter-lady, you went for soft, curvy me.”  She runs her hands down her body, emphasizing her assets.

 

“You pursued me,” Vegeta reminds her.

 

“So what?  If you wanted a ripped wife, you would have found one.”  The derision in her voice turns thoughtful as she considers the difficulties the normal dating scene would present to him.  “Though...I guess I can see where explaining the whole ‘genocidal alien stranded on this planet’ bit would have been super awkward with anyone else.... and you can’t exactly ask her to overlook the part where you came here to exterminate humanity.  Still, there are weirdos everywhere...”

 

If he notices that she essentially called herself a weirdo, he lets it pass because the portion that Vegeta chooses to focus on is, “Why am I stranded in this scenario?”

 

Bulma turns her nose up.  “I don’t lend spaceships to men I’m not sleeping with.”

 

He looks at her quizzically.  It’s understandable, considering the first time he took off in a Capsule Corp. space ship, they were as far from sleeping together as it is possible to be.   Not to mention, he forwent any pretense of asking her to lend it to him. 

 

“This is probably some kind of Saiyan fetish,” Bulma decides.  “Big-breasts and no muscles.  I bet all the weird brothels on your planet were filled with women who looked like me.  I wish I had known what a creepy weirdo you are before I married you.”

 

“I wish I had known attraction to big breasts is your deal-breaker,” he parries.  “I could have gotten out of this in the beginning.”

 

She just laughs.  “It‘s taken you 13 years to say you like my boobs.  You never had a shot in hell, buddy.  Now, important question: what do you think of my butt?”  She shifts off the mattress enough to lightly slap her own ass for emphasis.  Vegeta can manage nothing but a groan, which makes her laugh harder.

 

**V. Tails**

**  
**Never one to let opportunity or daylight pass him by, Vegeta is an early riser.  Bulma, with actual responsibilities and a long to-do list for the company, rises comparatively much later.  Or rather, she gets up later in a _beautiful dream-world_ where Vegeta is a considerate partner and _doesn’t_ wake her up every morning just rolling out of bed and locating a fresh pair of bicycle shorts.  In the real world, she blinks blearily at him at 5 AM as he laces up his sneakers.

 

He sits on the bed shirtless, with his back to her.  In the dim light seeping in through the hallway, Bulma can just make out the dark scar where his tail used to protrude.  His body is covered in scars and most of them, she considers sexy.  The spot that marks his tail is ugly -- raised a good inch and still making a valiant attempt to grow fur.  The visible patches of skin appear stretched and unnatural.

 

 “How come your tail has never grown back?”

 

Done with his right shoe, Vegeta shifts to tie the left.  “What makes you think it hasn’t?”

 

“I spend a lot of time looking at your butt,” Bulma confesses flatly.  “I think I would notice a tail coming out of it.”

 

He heaves a disgusted sigh.  “Just when you have me almost convinced you are intelligent, you spout nonsense like that.”

 

Bulma rolls her eyes.  Prince of Saiyans?  More like Prince of Semantics.  “Fine, fine, I would notice a tail coming out of just _above_ your butt.”

 

He stands.  “It has grown back.”  He says the words like they don’t matter at all, but it is impossible to miss the almost self-conscious way he adjusts his shorts, pulling the waistband up enough to cover the scar.

 

Bulma squints.  “And whheeeeeeere is it?”

 

“Fully decomposed, I would imagine.”  He disappears into the bathroom that adjoins their bedroom.  

 

“Um.”  Bulma rises to her knees on the mattress and calls,  “Explain?”

 

Vegeta emerges from the bathroom and leans against the doorframe, a towel draped over one of his shoulders.  “Dead flesh attracts flies and bacteria that break it down --”

 

“-- I know that!”  she shouts, frustrated.  “I wasn’t asking for a biology lesson!”

 

“I’m surprised this concerns you,” Vegeta admits.  He slings the towel off his shoulder and jams it into the half-packed duffel bag on the foot of the bed.  He always packs his gym bag on the bed, and it is always annoying for someone trying to _sleep_ there.  As he lifts a water bottle out, judging its fullness by weight, he adds,  “You removed Trunks and Bra’s tails soon after their births.”

 

“Yeah,” Bulma concedes, bouncing on the mattress as she drops into a sitting position, “but I’m not a fan of Giant Monkey Monsters.  I assume you feel differently.”

 

He shrugs.  “I am the same degree of monster in this form as any other.  The same would be true of our children.”

 

“Okay...one,” Bulma holds up a hand and begins to tick off on her fingers, “-- actually, no, the giant monkey is totally more monstrous and like, _damn_ , how do you not get that?  I mean, you probably get off on how freaking scary that thing is.  Two,” another finger joins the fray, “-- you’re not...okay, yeah, I guess you are kind of a monster.”  She grins.  “Oops.”

 

Vegeta grins back and parrots, “Oops.”

 

She sobers.  Bulma has a decent understanding of the things he had done before he met her.  She knows how _staggeringly_ long it took him to develop any degree of remorse about it.  His compassion is hard-won, but she knows he feels it.  She lives to tease him, but she doesn’t like that he smiled -- really _smiled_ \-- at her when she called him a monster.  She says the only thing to absolve herself that she can.  “I love you.”

 

He hums lightly, (in satisfaction, she thinks) before declaring, “I don’t require affirmation.”

 

She rolls her eyes.  “Humor me.”

 

“I often feel that’s all I do.”

 

“If only!” Bulma presses the back of her hand to her forehead with staged exasperation.  When that’s finished, she cheerfully resumes the search for an explanation:  “Now, continue humoring me for some more tail talk.  Your tail has grown back and you’ve removed it yourself?”

 

Vegeta looks offended.  “I would never deface myself in such a way, nor purposefully allow someone else to.”

 

“Okay...” she drawls, knitting her eyebrows.  “We have crossed hairs here somewhere...”

 

“My tail has not grown back since that fool of a samurai cut it off on my first visit to this planet.”  Part of her is affronted that Vegeta has never lost his bitterness over that battle.  If he had won, she would have been killed, their children would never have been born and more than likely, he would still be serving Frieza.  The annoyance in his voice and continued disrespect towards her friends makes her hackles rise.  But the scientist in her wins out when Vegeta unexpectedly drops new information: “I had lost my tail in battle on previous occasions, and it grew back both times.”

 

“Huh.”  She strokes her chin, processing the new variables.  “What makes the time with Yajirobe different from the others?”

 

It is immediately clear Vegeta has spent some time thinking about this.  “I believe the light on this planet is insufficient.”

 

“That makes no sense,” Bulma protests.  “Son and Gohan’s tails have grown back here on Earth.”

 

“Trunks and Goten’s as well, though I’ve removed them when they do.”  He bares his teeth.  “I know how you feel about ‘Giant Monkey Monsters.’  But every one of these instances occurred when the grower of the tail was a child.  Saiyan eyes absorb a particular part of the visible light spectrum known as Bruits waves.  Absorption of Bruits waves triggers the Ozaru transformation.  In individuals who have lost their tails, it also triggers tail growth.  The transformation requires an extremely large and concentrated amount of waves to be absorbed very quickly.  Only the light from a full moon, or an artificial moon, has the necessary waves.  Tail growth is simpler.  Bruits waves from ambient lighting, absorbed over a period of time is sufficient.  However, an adult body requires greater concentration of waves and over a longer period of time, to kickstart tail growth than a child’s.”

 

Bulma shrugs, the solution apparent.  “So make an artificial moon every day and absorb concentrated light until your tail grows back.  That seems easy enough.”

 

“Creation of an artificial moon is not to be taken lightly.”  If she didn’t know better, Bulma would think he was chiding her.  “It causes a severe depletion in one’s power.”

 

The idea of a Vegeta that can’t go toe-to-toe with anyone less than Son on his worst day is laughable.  “Yeah, but you are way more powerful now than you were the last time you did it.  Even depleted, you’re still going to be crazy strong.”

 

“It is a technique to be used when you are desperate, not something to do just because you can.”  She’s beginning to wonder if this is how he talks to the children during training sessions.

 

“Except that with no tail,” Bulma points out, absolutely needing to wipe the condescension out of his tone, “when you get that desperate you are going to be shit out of luck because you won’t transform.”

 

“Since achieving the Legendary, I have no use for the Ozaru form.  A foe that cannot be felled by a Super Saiyan will not be felled by the much weaker Ozaru.  Systematically depleting my power so that I can generate the waves necessary to regrow my tail and make that transformation possible would be asinine.”

 

She can’t argue with that logic, so Bulma changes gears.  “You are missing a _limb_.  Don’t you miss it?”

 

He scowls.  “Useless sentiment.”

 

“Translation: Yes,” she crows with triumph.  But something about that doesn’t add up either.  “Feeling whole again is in your power and you are choosing not to.  That makes no sense.”

 

Vegeta shakes his head.  “An emotional attachment to something that holds you back makes no sense.”

 

“While I’m deciding if I should interpret that as subtly romantic or not --”

 

“-- WHAT? --”

 

“-- ponder this: all the really _fun_ body parts are the sensitive ones.”  Her tone turns sly.  “And Saiyan tails are _really_ sensitive, right?”

 

The only thing keeping his prudish Saiyan sensibilities in check is being completely dumbfounded.  “You are suggesting that I deplete my power and regrow a limb that is obsolete because you’ve started having sexual thoughts about it?”

 

“Well...not _started_...,” Bulma admits haltingly, “but, yeah.”

 

“Is nothing sacred to you?” he spits.

 

“That’s not fair,” she pouts.  “That whole region around your butt is pretty sacred to me.  It’s one of the major sites of worship in my religion.”

 

She can see she’s left him momentarily speechless.  She’s reduced him to his old stand-by epithet.  “Vulgar woman.”

 

“I am the high priestess!” she declares, all but leaping into a standing position on the mattress.  He stares up at her, shock written all over his face.  But, Bulma figures, as she throws herself down into his arms, if he thinks she’s a pervert, she might as well own the title.  “It is my responsibility to greet the dawn of each new day with a blow job!”


End file.
